On which planet are we ? (This's exactly where the Octogenarian was manhandled by the Judicial Police in the University of Paris-Créteil parking lot. The High Court building is in the background.)
DIARY NOTES : Mad-House Maths
March 30th., 2018 - Another day sets in Paris
The home-bound Octogenarian trundles from the Mall's town centre
Back laden with the day's shopping
His hands numb from clutching load-packed plastic bags during the two Kms and more
The sore reddish-smudge of a sun cocks an eye over the jagged rim of the horizon's darkening clouds at early dusk
Some chick warbler tries its strength hopping on grim bold knobbly dark outstretched arms as cherry blossoms drop pink and violet on the scuffed grass
instead of sprinkling snow fluffs
Massive stone or glittering glass official buildings : " palaces " or " hotels " in catering country
hardly impress the growing migrant force in the open shrub-lined plaza
puffing hookah-groups form around barbecue grills
while foot and basket-balls sting town-hall annexe walls
to the tune of revving engines on lone stunt-back wheels
the long night vigil commences anew
All in view of the Zen-Pagoda High Court
looming over the sprawling UPEC faculty complex right across the local " Palais " shopping centre
The Octo thought he heard a cuckoo call
Or was it the turtle dove moaning its mate from last Fall
Weary of repairing his second-hand twenty-year old Laguna
Sabotaged at every turn
He settles for the cheapest car on the market : the basic Spandero
No catalogue spells out its dashboard or engine layout
He slumps into the brand-new humpless driver's seat
To see how he might adapt the old radio for some Miles Davis mind-soul rap
A sleek black limousine pulls up behind
Out jump three men
two old plumpy Andaluzian-looking dressed in rags
the third metizo-Black tall and athletic tough in civil light pull-over
They adjust police arm-bands and block both the p assenger and driver's seats
They command the Octo out of his own car
The Black shoves him to the back
" You are in possession of arms ", he says
" Empty your pockets, here, on the roof "
The Octo has hardly the time to react
As the Black frisks him and shuffs his hands in the Octo's pockets
and roughs him up
The other short squat gentleman grabs his official Research Fellow ID card
and checks it out in the limousine's tele-speaker electronic wares
Meantime the tall wide-girthed senior gentleman has edged his way to the open driver door and beckons with outstretched arm : " The car keys ! "
The Octogenarian protests mildly : " Why do you want my keys ? "
" We are the Judiciary Police, " he retorts. " If you don't handover the keys,
We'll put you under garde à vue ! "
That's 48 hours in a police cell, with no way probably of taking daily cardiac condition pills. The Octo relents. The keys contain the security lock key as well.
The gentleman with the ID returns and rails at the Octogenarian.
" What are you researching ? Are you looking for ways to becoming a fauteur des troubles ? "
That's a trouble-maker.
The gentleman in the car has obviously trouble finding machine-guns and bazookas hidden under the car seats.
He hands over the car keys. Before they pull out, the Black warns :
" We know you. We'll be watching out for you when you move about the vicinity ! "
The very next day, the Octogenarian pens a letter relating exactly what happened and mails it under registered cover with acknowledgement of receipt to the Chief Public Prosecutor (the Procureur de la République) of the region. The Octogenarian has just received a letter, dated August 20, 2018, from the latter's office stating that "no criminal proceedings will be engaged as the facts revealed in this suit are not punishable according to the dispositions of any penal text."
Some ten days after his letter to the Chief Public Prosecutor, the Octogenarian found all the doors of his car left open and the contents of the glove compartment spilled on the floor.
Instead, he receives an official document, a month or so later, signed by the Public Prosecutor's Office stating that his car had been clocked for speeding at 124 km on a highway where the speed-limit was 110 in the North-Western region of Paris at 9.42 a.m., and a fine was imposed which if paid without contestation would amount to 68 euros.
Since the Octogenarian has never ever been in that area in his life, he follows the procedure laid out and pays the fine, but asks for the PHOTO/Cliché taken by the traffic-control authorities, for the Public Prosecutor's office also required him to undertake criminal proceedings against " the culprit " who may or may not have stolen his car on that fateful day in order to effect the change in the number plates and the car papers all over again.
The fine was refunded, but the PIC recording the offence has yet to arrive.
Strictly speaking, the Octogenarian cannot undertake criminal proceedings without proof of the offence.
In any case, who should he sue ? The Judicial Police ? the Traffic Police ? or the Public Prosecutor ? Or some mythical Car-Thief with an axe to grind ?
Hello Ron ! Very apt and appropriate again in your comments. You should realize - if you will permit my interpolation - we are not talking about two countries where the same system of government and the judicial apparatus has been flourishing for centuries now, albeit, the two-party (mainly) in a bi-cameral democratic set-up evolved (also or principally propagated by the British) in England and extended to its imperial territories. The role of the Catholic Church has been challenged by the Free-Masons, and it is questionable if the latter has not largely replaced the former in influence at the higher echelons of power in some countries. Since the last WW, multi-national companies controlled by banks with ethnic capital have entered the arena: Jews first and now Muslims from oil-rich countries. In such a diversified situation where money speaks louder than human or humane rights, justice is dispensed with, and disposed off, as a stabilizing factor, with the result that, even in apparently well-functioning democracies, the rot has already set in. The price to pay and to be exacted remains the one constant: the lack of MORALITY. The point of no-return has probably been reached in most countries. When this happens, principles wither to the point where self-respect evaporates, and the individual is capable of any crime without remorse or fear. My poem illustrates this thesis. WHO does one accuse? The Trial ? Catch-22 ? One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest ? This's the reality today. In the story, to answer your question more pertinently, criminal proceedings can and should be brought against "X", but the proof (the PIC of the driving offense) is withheld by the State, so no -one can legitimately be sued. You say you would in the States employ a lawyer to defend you in similar circumstances. In France, in criminal cases one can defend oneself but the court file/dossier of the case cannot be consulted by the litigant without legal representation, that is, a lawyer's intervention. In my case, even lawyers prevent and obstruct the proper exercise of one's rights, so there's no relief nor justice possible. In a country where even Presidents can get impeached for telling lies, of course, you are privileged, so we are not talking of similar countries or of similar plights. Every good wish.
Very interesting. It appears that a personal experience of yours has been turned into a poem/story of your pain and glory. I can't answer your query at the end. But I know that if it happened to me here in a major city I would know what to do and immediately proceed to file my claim with the court. Although based on what I read I might need a lawyer.
An eye-opening look into the world of human trafficking. Pilar thought she was destined to die until she met Becky. A fairy tale ending to this story with the help of Tess is called Justice. It was time for someone to hit back because the courts in S
In June, 2000, two college students — Amy Shute and Jason Burgeson — were approached by a group of men. Forced into the backseat and driven to a remote location, they were murdered in cold blood.
Following this brutal double homicide, Johnston, RI D
A raw in your face story of teenage love, lust, murder, and revenge set in the Bronx in the early seventies, where the cold business world of organize crime melds with the brutality of street gang warlords that ignites a winner takes all battle for u
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Ron